Anatomy of a Killer by Peter Rabe Page B

don’t like that either,” said Jordan.
    “Like there was no other way to get along, you know? Well, there’s lots of ways to get along.”
    “Of course.”
    “Like being friendly.” She looked at the opposite window and frowned at the dark glass. “I’d like that to happen sometime.”
    She was talking too much and Jordan felt bothered that he was letting her. What she said did not bother him, he felt, just the waste of time.
    “Do all your customers live around here?”
    “I’d like to know what’s wrong with being friendly, you know that?”
    She’s dull, he thought. One thing at a time. I can ask her about Kemp and not worry too much how she will take it.
    “I don’t think anything is wrong with that,” he told her. “I often think the same way.” He said it easily because he did not think about what he said. He felt it was small talk.
    “Some do,” she said. “Some live around here but some just work down that end a ways. The yard and the depot.”
    One thing at a time and one after the other. He was not worried about her. He also envied her.
    Jordan felt the draft again and then saw dirty pants. The man sat down two seats away, and when he hit the seat he gave a great sigh. Jordan could smell the liquor.
    “Without anything,” he said.
    “They drive a truck,” said the girl, “and right away they think they got to be like a truck theirselves, you ever notice that?”
    “Black and hot,” said the drunk and the girl got the coffee.
    The best thing, now that this drunk is here, I pick her up later, thought Jordan. He felt some ease and smiled at her when she turned. It was easy and she smiled back.
    Some miners came in and ordered things off the grill and a kid came in to take something out to the car. There was talk and the girl was busy, and Jordan bent over to finish his coffee and doughnuts in peace. After a while he said, “How much is the bill?” and after that, when she would pay attention and look at him when he gave her the money, then he would ask her when the diner closed for the night.
    “Onion like always?” she said, and the man next to Jordan said, “Same way, Betty. Don’t rush.”
    She slid dirty dishes under the counter, which made a great crash; she put coffee on the counter, two cups, and turned back to the grill right away and put a raw hamburger patty on top. The raw meat hissed and steamed.
    “Pass me the sugar, would you?”
    Jordan thought he might smoke one more cigarette and drink one more cup of coffee.
    “Would you reach me that sugar bowl over, please?” and this time Jordan knew that the man was talking to him, because his hand was on Jordan’s shoulder and he pointed across at the sugar bowl.
    “Yes,” said Jordan. “I’m sorry.”
    He picked up the sugar bowl and watched the girl turn around with the plate of onions and hamburger. She said, “I already put sugar in your coffee, Mister Kemp,” and she put the hamburger down on the counter. Jordan put the sugar bowl down again.
    Everything shrank.
    The man in the next seat said something else. “Thanks just the same,” he said, and put his hand on Jordan’s back once more, heavy and forever, but Jordan sat it out by not moving or breathing, though in the middle of that, from somewhere, he said, “That’s all right,” and then the hand was gone.
    “Thirty-five,” said the girl.
    Kemp, next to Jordan, was eating his hamburger.
    “Did you want to pay?” said the girl. “I thought you said you wanted to pay.”
    Jordan did not want to talk because he did not know what would come out. He picked his cup off the saucer and smelled the tar smell of the cold coffee.
    “Another cup?” she said.
    She took the cup and Jordan held the small piece of doughnut he had left. He bit into it, moved the piece back and forth over his teeth, felt the dryness of it and how it lay in his mouth like something which did not belong there. It stayed dry. He would never be able to swallow it. He put his hand up,